Solidarity (And Some Kind of Integrity) 3/8
Title: Solidarity (And Some Kind of Integrity) 1/8
Prompt: In which Marcus Aquila is an outcast and a Gryffindor and Esca MacCunoval is a muggleborn and a Ravenclaw. During their years at Hogwarts, they forge new friendships, make unbelievable amounts of mistakes, are reckless and generally childish, do inappropriate things in inappropriate places and will never, ever, regret any of it.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Esca/Marcus
Art: bachaboska
Beta'd By: The never-endingly glorious and wonderful Anigram. Thank you so much for cheering me on and always making me write and generally being awesome and incredible. Without you, there would be no fic! <3
A/N: Also, HUUUUGE thanks go to poziomeczka for putting up with my constant messages and emails and for help with THAT scene. Without you and your astonishingly amazing work and dedication (not to mention the spectacular brainstorming at the very beginning), this fic would not be. <3
Spoilers/Warnings: Please bear in mind that because this fic is based in the UK and was written by someone based in the UK, the consenting age for that country was used (16 years). All characters participating in sexual acts are of consenting age. (: Strong language!
The Third Year
As soon as Marcus gets on the train, he knows something is wrong. He meets Esca by chance as he’s looking for a compartment, and Marcus asks him what’s going on, but he doesn’t know. There’s a strange hush throughout the train, which is odd - normally, Marcus can barely hear himself think over the din of all the other students. And, normally, it’s a complete nightmare trying to find a compartment, or even a seat, but today, the train is well, pretty much empty. Which is slightly worrying.
Esca wanders off to investigate, eyebrows knotted in confusion and slight concern, and Marcus waits with their stuff, leaning back into the seat to watch the platform. There’s the usual stragglers, those who almost miss the train, who have to run to catch it, and the usual crowds of milling parents. It’s easy to pick out the parents of the new first years - the ones trying not to cry, waving frantically.
Esca returns, after a good ten minutes, and he looks calm, almost indifferent, as if the thing he found wasn’t worth the effort of looking. “What was it?” Marcus asks, and Esca shrugs, flopping down into the seat opposite him.
“Everyone’s crowded down one end, tryin’ to get a look in one of the compartments.”
“Why?”
“Some new kid. I asked Crag and he said something about him surviving an attack that killed his parents or whatever.” He taps a finger on his forehead, “He’s got some kind of scar here or, apparently. Marcus? What’s wrong?”
Marcus clears his throat quickly. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. Did he er, say anything else?”
“Just that he’s sat with one of the Weasleys. Ron, or something.”
Marcus isn’t really listening anymore - he’s too busy panicking. He knows exactly whom Esca is talking about. Harry Potter. The boy orphaned by Lord Voldemort. Orphaned by the man his parents turned coats to. This, Marcus decides, is definitely not good.
It gets worse. As soon as Potter is sorted, directed to the Gryffindor table (And really, Marcus shouldn’t have expected anything different, but a part of him hoped.), sits a few seats down from Marcus on the other side of the table, it gets worse. The new Weasley points at him, trying to be subtle, whispers something to Potter, and the boy instantly looks up, directly at him, staring and staring and then glaring. Marcus tries not to look up, really tries, focusing on his dinner and attempting to distract himself by listening to Wood going through the plans for the Quidditch team this year. He’s got high hopes, apparently, and a lot of plans that will get them the Cup for sure this year. Marcus nods, in all the right places, struggling to keep down the food he’s eaten, and Wood keeps talking, but Marcus isn’t really listening anymore, because he can see Potter putting down his fork, pushing his plate away.
He can feel the glares, the horrid looks, he’s being given, as if they’re burning, burning straight through him, and it takes all his self-control not to just bolt from the room right now.
The new Weasley, Ron, he thinks Esca said his name was, says something else, and Marcus can’t hear what he says, but just catches the disgusted curl of his lip, the shake of his head, and then, the sudden, unexpected jerk back as Fred, whose sat opposite him, expertly flicks a spoonful of peas into his face and hisses, “Would you shut up, Ron?” He watches, and can feel his heart pounding, as Ron opens his mouth to retort, but Fred cuts him off again, and Marcus is taken aback by the sheer venom in his voice as he says, “You know nothing, Ron. Absolutely nothing, so shut up, yeah? Aquila’s not like that.”
Oh. Oh. Marcus feels a sudden lump stick in his throat, and he struggles to keep himself in check. He’s never really gotten to know Fred, or his brother, but they’d formed a sort of working relationship on the Quidditch Pitch when they’d realised how good a Keeper he was, but Marcus had never thought they’d got on that well, for Fred to defend him. In truth, he’d thought he still hated him. Potter is still watching him, intently and relentlessly, and Marcus keeps his eyes trained on the plate, watches as his concentration makes the food blur in his vision.
He glances up, an involuntary reaction, when there’s a sudden burst of laughter from the other end of the table, probably some sort of prank or joke from the Weasley twins, and he instantly finds himself locked in Potter’s gaze. They make eye contact, just for a second, and Marcus doesn’t understand - there’s no hatred in his eyes anymore, only confusion, and more than a
little curiosity.
*****
“Marcus?” He brushes past, shoves almost, shakes his head furiously, roughly brushes tears from his eyes. He doesn’t want to talk, can’t talk. God, why now, of all times? Why this particular time, just as he was starting to shake it off, to move on? Why now that he was finally becoming happy?
“Marcus!” Esca is persistent, hurries after him, steps quick and quiet on the stairs out of the castle, compared to Marcus’ loud and heavy and desperate ones. “Marcus!”
Esca’s hand reaches out, grabs Marcus’ sleeve, just brushes his arm, and he pulls, sudden and sharp. Marcus spins, angry and furious and about to spit something he knows he’ll instantly regret, but he can’t seem to stop himself, but falls short, when Esca looks panicked and points over Marcus’ shoulder. He looks, and then understands. He’s gone further than he thought, crossed more ground than he realized, right to the peripheral of the reach of the Whomping Willow. The guilt is quick to wash over him, make his breath catch in his throat, and he bites his lip, struggles to hold back tears.
“Can I ask - what did he say? Dumbledore I mean?” His voice is quiet, cautious, but Marcus shakes his head, I can’t. Dumbledore had asked Marcus to come to his office, that morning, to discuss something of unparalleled importance and significance. Marcus had instantly known what it was about. How could he not? “I think I know,” Esca continues, his eyes bright and searching. Marcus shifts, uncomfortable, under his gaze. “I heard that Potter kid talking about someone, someone bad. Really bad. I don’t know their name, and I don’t know who they are, but it’s something to do with them, right?” Marcus nods. “And something to do with your parents?”
Marcus nods again, and suddenly, he loses the fight against the tears, and they force their way down his face, leaving faint, anguished trails on his cheeks. “It’s alright,” Esca murmurs instantly, as if by reflex, or by habit; perhaps its something you’re meant to say when someone’s crying, and normally, It works, as much as an empty phrase can. “It’s alright, Marcus.” Except this time, it doesn’t.
Marcus jerks away from him, shaking his head fiercely. “It’s not alright! It’s not alright at all!” His voice cracks, loud and shameful, and he bites down hard on his lip to try and regain some kind of control over himself. It shakes, desperate and persistent, under the firm hold of his teeth. “It’s not alright.” He repeats, quieter, almost too quiet for Esca to hear.
“Marcus, please-“
“No, Esca, you don’t understand! I’m not like you!”
“Well, I know that-“
“No, you don’t know! You don’t know anything!”
“Then let me know! Tell me!”
It takes a while, as Marcus hesitates, and battles with himself and his inner demons over what he should do, but, eventually, halting and unsure, Esca is told the truth.
Marcus tells him about the Order of the Phoenix, the order that his parents were a part of, tells him their intention - to fight back. He explains his parent’s role in the group, his father as an auror, a protector, of sorts; his mother as a teacher, which sounds less important, but the knowledge she brought, of Herbology and Potions and Defence Against the Dark Arts, was indescribably vital.
“They were making progress,” Marcus says, as they take a seat on the soft grass over looking the willow, “Making progress toward finally making a difference, toward finally defeating Voldemort.” But then, suddenly, his parents stopped going to the meetings, stopped seeing the other members of the Order, stopped talking to them. They just seemed to disappear. No one knew what had happened to them, where they’d gone, whether they were even alive or not, until, one day, news reached the Order - The Aquilas had been seen leaving a known hideout of Voldemort’s, been seen shaking hands with Lucius Malfoy, were rumoured to have been speaking with the Dark Lord himself. No one knew what to think, how to react, and even then, when they’d been discovered, they wouldn’t speak to the Order, wouldn’t make contact.
“And that was that, for a while. The Order resigned itself to the fact that two of its members had been”, Marcus struggles for a moment, and Esca lets him take his time, “had been traitors. They accepted it, to an extent, as much as you can, I suppose, and tried to move on from it. Until, one day, not long after, they received some information that Voldemort had finally called a mass meeting with his followers, providing a perfect opportunity to cause some damage to their numbers. So, they went to the rumoured meeting place, to sabotage the whole thing, except, they found something entirely opposite to what they were expecting. It wasn’t a meeting at all, not like they thought, but rather, an execution.”
Esca places a hand over Marcus’ in what he hopes is a comforting gesture, some form of encouragement, and assurance that he’s there, and Marcus blinks away the tears, breathes through the sudden lump in his throat, and presses on. Before they could do anything, step in, save them, anything, he slaughtered them, in front of everyone.
“He killed them, my parents, and I just - I’ve tried, really tried, but I just don’t understand!” And then, Marcus is sobbing, tearing, painful, heart-felt sobs, and rushing forward into Esca’s open arms, clinging to his jumper, his face buried in his neck. It’s uncomfortable, and Esca’s hips are twisted oddly, and Marcus is leaning most of his weight on him, but Esca doesn’t mind - Marcus needs him, right now, right here, and that’s all that matters. He rubs warm, slow circles into his back, one hand resting on his head, tries to soothe the heaving of his chest, and whispers, it’s alright, Marcus, it’s alright, even though it isn’t, it really isn’t, and feels his heart breaking.
Prompt: In which Marcus Aquila is an outcast and a Gryffindor and Esca MacCunoval is a muggleborn and a Ravenclaw. During their years at Hogwarts, they forge new friendships, make unbelievable amounts of mistakes, are reckless and generally childish, do inappropriate things in inappropriate places and will never, ever, regret any of it.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Esca/Marcus
Art: bachaboska
Beta'd By: The never-endingly glorious and wonderful Anigram. Thank you so much for cheering me on and always making me write and generally being awesome and incredible. Without you, there would be no fic! <3
A/N: Also, HUUUUGE thanks go to poziomeczka for putting up with my constant messages and emails and for help with THAT scene. Without you and your astonishingly amazing work and dedication (not to mention the spectacular brainstorming at the very beginning), this fic would not be. <3
Spoilers/Warnings: Please bear in mind that because this fic is based in the UK and was written by someone based in the UK, the consenting age for that country was used (16 years). All characters participating in sexual acts are of consenting age. (: Strong language!
The Third Year
As soon as Marcus gets on the train, he knows something is wrong. He meets Esca by chance as he’s looking for a compartment, and Marcus asks him what’s going on, but he doesn’t know. There’s a strange hush throughout the train, which is odd - normally, Marcus can barely hear himself think over the din of all the other students. And, normally, it’s a complete nightmare trying to find a compartment, or even a seat, but today, the train is well, pretty much empty. Which is slightly worrying.
Esca wanders off to investigate, eyebrows knotted in confusion and slight concern, and Marcus waits with their stuff, leaning back into the seat to watch the platform. There’s the usual stragglers, those who almost miss the train, who have to run to catch it, and the usual crowds of milling parents. It’s easy to pick out the parents of the new first years - the ones trying not to cry, waving frantically.
Esca returns, after a good ten minutes, and he looks calm, almost indifferent, as if the thing he found wasn’t worth the effort of looking. “What was it?” Marcus asks, and Esca shrugs, flopping down into the seat opposite him.
“Everyone’s crowded down one end, tryin’ to get a look in one of the compartments.”
“Why?”
“Some new kid. I asked Crag and he said something about him surviving an attack that killed his parents or whatever.” He taps a finger on his forehead, “He’s got some kind of scar here or, apparently. Marcus? What’s wrong?”
Marcus clears his throat quickly. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. Did he er, say anything else?”
“Just that he’s sat with one of the Weasleys. Ron, or something.”
Marcus isn’t really listening anymore - he’s too busy panicking. He knows exactly whom Esca is talking about. Harry Potter. The boy orphaned by Lord Voldemort. Orphaned by the man his parents turned coats to. This, Marcus decides, is definitely not good.
It gets worse. As soon as Potter is sorted, directed to the Gryffindor table (And really, Marcus shouldn’t have expected anything different, but a part of him hoped.), sits a few seats down from Marcus on the other side of the table, it gets worse. The new Weasley points at him, trying to be subtle, whispers something to Potter, and the boy instantly looks up, directly at him, staring and staring and then glaring. Marcus tries not to look up, really tries, focusing on his dinner and attempting to distract himself by listening to Wood going through the plans for the Quidditch team this year. He’s got high hopes, apparently, and a lot of plans that will get them the Cup for sure this year. Marcus nods, in all the right places, struggling to keep down the food he’s eaten, and Wood keeps talking, but Marcus isn’t really listening anymore, because he can see Potter putting down his fork, pushing his plate away.
He can feel the glares, the horrid looks, he’s being given, as if they’re burning, burning straight through him, and it takes all his self-control not to just bolt from the room right now.
The new Weasley, Ron, he thinks Esca said his name was, says something else, and Marcus can’t hear what he says, but just catches the disgusted curl of his lip, the shake of his head, and then, the sudden, unexpected jerk back as Fred, whose sat opposite him, expertly flicks a spoonful of peas into his face and hisses, “Would you shut up, Ron?” He watches, and can feel his heart pounding, as Ron opens his mouth to retort, but Fred cuts him off again, and Marcus is taken aback by the sheer venom in his voice as he says, “You know nothing, Ron. Absolutely nothing, so shut up, yeah? Aquila’s not like that.”
Oh. Oh. Marcus feels a sudden lump stick in his throat, and he struggles to keep himself in check. He’s never really gotten to know Fred, or his brother, but they’d formed a sort of working relationship on the Quidditch Pitch when they’d realised how good a Keeper he was, but Marcus had never thought they’d got on that well, for Fred to defend him. In truth, he’d thought he still hated him. Potter is still watching him, intently and relentlessly, and Marcus keeps his eyes trained on the plate, watches as his concentration makes the food blur in his vision.
He glances up, an involuntary reaction, when there’s a sudden burst of laughter from the other end of the table, probably some sort of prank or joke from the Weasley twins, and he instantly finds himself locked in Potter’s gaze. They make eye contact, just for a second, and Marcus doesn’t understand - there’s no hatred in his eyes anymore, only confusion, and more than a
little curiosity.
*****
“Marcus?” He brushes past, shoves almost, shakes his head furiously, roughly brushes tears from his eyes. He doesn’t want to talk, can’t talk. God, why now, of all times? Why this particular time, just as he was starting to shake it off, to move on? Why now that he was finally becoming happy?
“Marcus!” Esca is persistent, hurries after him, steps quick and quiet on the stairs out of the castle, compared to Marcus’ loud and heavy and desperate ones. “Marcus!”
Esca’s hand reaches out, grabs Marcus’ sleeve, just brushes his arm, and he pulls, sudden and sharp. Marcus spins, angry and furious and about to spit something he knows he’ll instantly regret, but he can’t seem to stop himself, but falls short, when Esca looks panicked and points over Marcus’ shoulder. He looks, and then understands. He’s gone further than he thought, crossed more ground than he realized, right to the peripheral of the reach of the Whomping Willow. The guilt is quick to wash over him, make his breath catch in his throat, and he bites his lip, struggles to hold back tears.
“Can I ask - what did he say? Dumbledore I mean?” His voice is quiet, cautious, but Marcus shakes his head, I can’t. Dumbledore had asked Marcus to come to his office, that morning, to discuss something of unparalleled importance and significance. Marcus had instantly known what it was about. How could he not? “I think I know,” Esca continues, his eyes bright and searching. Marcus shifts, uncomfortable, under his gaze. “I heard that Potter kid talking about someone, someone bad. Really bad. I don’t know their name, and I don’t know who they are, but it’s something to do with them, right?” Marcus nods. “And something to do with your parents?”
Marcus nods again, and suddenly, he loses the fight against the tears, and they force their way down his face, leaving faint, anguished trails on his cheeks. “It’s alright,” Esca murmurs instantly, as if by reflex, or by habit; perhaps its something you’re meant to say when someone’s crying, and normally, It works, as much as an empty phrase can. “It’s alright, Marcus.” Except this time, it doesn’t.
Marcus jerks away from him, shaking his head fiercely. “It’s not alright! It’s not alright at all!” His voice cracks, loud and shameful, and he bites down hard on his lip to try and regain some kind of control over himself. It shakes, desperate and persistent, under the firm hold of his teeth. “It’s not alright.” He repeats, quieter, almost too quiet for Esca to hear.
“Marcus, please-“
“No, Esca, you don’t understand! I’m not like you!”
“Well, I know that-“
“No, you don’t know! You don’t know anything!”
“Then let me know! Tell me!”
It takes a while, as Marcus hesitates, and battles with himself and his inner demons over what he should do, but, eventually, halting and unsure, Esca is told the truth.
Marcus tells him about the Order of the Phoenix, the order that his parents were a part of, tells him their intention - to fight back. He explains his parent’s role in the group, his father as an auror, a protector, of sorts; his mother as a teacher, which sounds less important, but the knowledge she brought, of Herbology and Potions and Defence Against the Dark Arts, was indescribably vital.
“They were making progress,” Marcus says, as they take a seat on the soft grass over looking the willow, “Making progress toward finally making a difference, toward finally defeating Voldemort.” But then, suddenly, his parents stopped going to the meetings, stopped seeing the other members of the Order, stopped talking to them. They just seemed to disappear. No one knew what had happened to them, where they’d gone, whether they were even alive or not, until, one day, news reached the Order - The Aquilas had been seen leaving a known hideout of Voldemort’s, been seen shaking hands with Lucius Malfoy, were rumoured to have been speaking with the Dark Lord himself. No one knew what to think, how to react, and even then, when they’d been discovered, they wouldn’t speak to the Order, wouldn’t make contact.
“And that was that, for a while. The Order resigned itself to the fact that two of its members had been”, Marcus struggles for a moment, and Esca lets him take his time, “had been traitors. They accepted it, to an extent, as much as you can, I suppose, and tried to move on from it. Until, one day, not long after, they received some information that Voldemort had finally called a mass meeting with his followers, providing a perfect opportunity to cause some damage to their numbers. So, they went to the rumoured meeting place, to sabotage the whole thing, except, they found something entirely opposite to what they were expecting. It wasn’t a meeting at all, not like they thought, but rather, an execution.”
Esca places a hand over Marcus’ in what he hopes is a comforting gesture, some form of encouragement, and assurance that he’s there, and Marcus blinks away the tears, breathes through the sudden lump in his throat, and presses on. Before they could do anything, step in, save them, anything, he slaughtered them, in front of everyone.
“He killed them, my parents, and I just - I’ve tried, really tried, but I just don’t understand!” And then, Marcus is sobbing, tearing, painful, heart-felt sobs, and rushing forward into Esca’s open arms, clinging to his jumper, his face buried in his neck. It’s uncomfortable, and Esca’s hips are twisted oddly, and Marcus is leaning most of his weight on him, but Esca doesn’t mind - Marcus needs him, right now, right here, and that’s all that matters. He rubs warm, slow circles into his back, one hand resting on his head, tries to soothe the heaving of his chest, and whispers, it’s alright, Marcus, it’s alright, even though it isn’t, it really isn’t, and feels his heart breaking.